


Fear in My Throat, Choke and Revolt

by bitterleafs



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Mentioned Catalina Flores, Mentioned Mirage, Mute Cassandra Cain, Panic Attacks, Past Rape/Non-con, Pre-Slash If You Squint, at least some comfort, fear toxin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:20:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26589520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitterleafs/pseuds/bitterleafs
Summary: Sometimes, faceless masks are terrifying. And sometimes, the best person to help with a panic attack is someone who's had their own fair share of them.
Relationships: Cassandra Cain & Dick Grayson, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd
Comments: 32
Kudos: 212





	Fear in My Throat, Choke and Revolt

**Author's Note:**

> Blame [epi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/epistemology/pseuds/epistemology) for encouraging me.  
> How fear toxin works in Arkham Knight is really cool and I wanted to explore it, so you can blame that too.
> 
> Gonna Be Sick! - The Dø

Falling, falling, he was always falling. It was a fact of Dick’s life. He was born falling and he would die falling and every moment in between would be more and more endless falling. Sometimes, he’d hit things on the way down, a tumble more than a free fall. Sometimes, briefly, it felt like he had hit the ground. _Finally,_ he’d think, _I can stop falling now._

But he was still falling, blood rushing in his ears like the wind on his way down. So he was still alive. It was becoming increasingly harder to be glad about that. There was a fog that took up too much space under his skull, making his head throb painfully.

He knew that something bad had happened but he couldn’t find the memory that would tell him. Was it important if he couldn’t remember? He took stock of his situation instead. He was dressed as Nightwing, which was a comfort. Seemed relatively unharmed, nothing out of the ordinary. He was on a roof, which was... less of a comfort at the moment. But what was a little more falling in the grand scheme of things?

His legs quaked under him in disagreement before simply giving out, as if to mock him.

Down he went, tumbling once again. When the wind rushing past finally quieted down, a laugh rang through the air and ice flooded his veins.

“Did you miss me, guapo?”

 _No._ He had not missed her. _No._ He did not want her here. _No._ This was not happening.

He had to get away, tried to scramble away, but the ice in his veins had already solidified, making him a statue before her. He had to leave. This was all wrong. _He_ was all wrong. With a hush—had he been talking out loud?—Catalina stoked his cheek and told him, “I’ll make you feel better, trust me.”

He didn’t trust her.

He threw up.

The bile burned, thawing and hollowing him out. Or maybe he had already been this hollow? It was hard to tell. The important thing was he could move again. He had to move, get away. He fell backwards scrambling across the rooftop but Catalina was gone. Only shadows remained where she had once stood.

The more he looked for where she had gone, the more the shadows swam and churned all around him, twisting into familiar face after familiar face. All the people he had failed. He watched them as they fell, flinched at each thud _thump_ smack as they crashed down around him. His parents, Donna, even Jason. He stared at the broken bodies surrounding him and the hole inside of him grew. _I’m sorry._ He should have saved them. _I’m so sorry._ He should have been the one who died. They all turned to face him, staring at him with accusatory eyes as the ground disappeared out from under him.

The wind howled in his ears and her laughter followed him down.

When he landed once again, the bodies had disappeared. He watched in terror as one of the shadows stretched toward him, manifesting into some eerie approximation of a person. Its body was less of a body and more of a suggestion of one, lacking any definition or limbs. As it peered down at him, he saw its face was an inky black void that threatened to consume him. It reminded him of his own emptiness, so he looked away.

Was this what Death looked like?

“Have I finally stopped falling?” He whispered.

Death tilted their head owlishly.

“Am I dead?”

They shook their head slowly. Suddenly arms materialized, moving through the air. Reaching for him?

 _“Don’t touch me!”_ He reared back, sliding across the coarse rooftop before curling up, hugging his legs to his chest.

Death froze, hands held up as if to placate him. A sight so surreal he almost laughed. Almost. But there was already laughter ringing in his ears, with a new voice layered over the first. The wind was never loud enough to drown them both out.

The shadows swallowed up Death and Mirage stood before him in their place. She laughed and she flirted and she reminded him just how easily she had him fooled. She was Kori, she was Babs, she was Catalina. She was every person who had ever touched him without permission and she was every person who had touched him _with_ permission. No one could be trusted because she could be anyone.

He curled up further into himself, as if that would push her further away from him.

The sound of deliberate footsteps interrupted the laughter and the wind and the choked noises he had been making with every breath. A mechanical voice called out cautiously, “You alright, Wing?” It was almost soothing, so distinctly different from all the other voices that smothered the air around him.

“Dickie?” The voice asked again.

He flinched at the nickname only Jason ever called him. Looking up slowly, he expected to see a scrawny boy dressed as Robin, bloody and broken, staring at him with dead eyes and blue lips. But it wasn’t Robin. It wasn’t Catalina either, or Death—though Death was standing not far behind it. It _could_ be Mirage. He wouldn’t know. It was... maybe a person? It wasn’t a shadow creature like Death, but it had a blank face like them, except blood red. He stared at its face, or lack of one, becoming increasingly unsettled by it.

“Where’s your face?” He half shouted the question, almost frantic.

The red face seemed startled by the question. “This is just a helmet,” they answered, slowly lifting it off to prove it. He watched in fear, expecting to see a headless body underneath. Instead there was a face he’d know anywhere, even with the red domino. It was Jason. _Or Mirage._ Why was Jason here? He almost looked concerned. But Jason hated him, so it couldn’t really be him.

Had to be Mirage then.

The fact made Dick more disappointed than he would have thought.

Jason-Mirage stepped a little closer to him, telegraphing their movements and Dick tumbled backwards to get away. “Get away!” His voice cracked, “Stop using his face!”

They stopped moving, but kept his face.

“It’s really me, I promise I’m really here.”

Dick shook his head vehemently, “No. He wouldn’t care. Not like this.”

The frown that appeared on Jason-Mirage’s face would have broken his heart if he had a heart left to break. He wished the real Jason cared like this one was pretending to. That they could talk without petty jabs and vicious barbs. That things were different, that they could be friends.

But most of all, he wished Mirage would stop toying with him.

“It’s really me,” They repeated as they slowly sat down in front of him. Every movement was careful and slow as they sat far enough away that they couldn’t touch Dick without warning.

Death mimicked Jason-Mirage’s movements, sitting down beside them. They tapped the impostor’s shoulder and their hands danced once Jason-Mirage looked their way. Dick eyed them both suspiciously, but the wind was back, drowning out whatever one-sided conversation the two were having.

A hand brushed the back of his neck, making him flinch. He whipped his head around in a panic, searching for the perpetrator. Catalina? Someone else? He only found more shadows and more laughter. He wanted to crawl away, crawl out of his skin.

Nowhere was safe.

When he finally turned back to Death and Fake Jason, he found Death had a face now. A concerned one, that looked like Cass. It seemed oddly fitting that she would be Death. He must have said so, because her frown deepened and she tilted her head.

Her hands danced again and he realized she was using them to speak to him, but he couldn’t focus, still searching the shadows behind her. Fake Jason softly tried to tell him what she said, but the body draped over their shoulder stole Dick attention.

Mirage smiled at him, “It’s flattering that you’re seeing me in everyone else, lover. When will you realize we were meant to be?”

He looked at Fake— _Real?_ —Jason’s face and then back at Mirage’s in horror. He wasn’t her lover. He _wasn’t_. He hadn’t known. She tricked him and he hadn’t known.

Kori’s laugh cut through all the others and he found her standing at his side, towering over him. “I didn’t know,” He whispered as he stared up at her.

Her face twisted into rage and he knew what was coming next.

“You should have,” She hissed, “You cheated on me, you slut.”

A manic laugh burst out of Dick, joining the chorus of laughter around him. He couldn’t help it. And once he started, he couldn’t stop. Maybe he should have known. Maybe he just hadn’t wanted to know. Maybe this was what he deserved.

Jason— _real_ Jason—had flicked the lenses up in his mask at some point and was staring at him now with a concern that was bordering on fear the longer Dick laughed. Cass still sat next to him, studying Dick as if she could discern a way to help from just his body language.

Maybe she could. She always impressed him.

He gave them both a mordant smile, “She’s right, you know, I _am_ a slut.” He didn’t stop laughing, a sharp staccato that punctuated his hyperventilating breaths. “Why else would I have let that happen?”

Jason sucked in a sharp breath, “Let what happen?”

“What they did,” Dick laughed. “Both of them.” His face felt wet, he kept laughing, “All of it. Everything.”

He couldn’t stop laughing. He couldn’t breathe.

He started crying.

His suit was suffocating him, trapping him. He tore off his gloves and started scratching frantically at his skin. Had to get out. Had to claw his way out. The wind howled and raged around him.

“Dick, stop!” Jason’s voice cut through his hysteria, hand catching his wrist to keep him from scratching. He froze and stared at the hand touching him, choking out the word _poison_ between laughs and sobs. But Jason didn’t let go.

His grip was steady and warm, a lifeline.

“Look at me, Dickie. You’re not poison.”

Tearing his gaze away from the hand wrapped around his wrist, Dick looked up at Jason. He was closer now, had to be to get close enough to stop Dick from scratching. There was gentleness on the younger man’s face that he had never seen before. He was glad that Jason still knew how to be gentle, despite everything.

“I need you to breathe for me, can you do that?”

There wasn’t enough air. He didn’t have lungs. He couldn’t breathe.

“Just breathe with me,” Jason told him, “You’re having a panic attack.”

Wasn’t panic the appropriate response? How else do people respond to their... What exactly were they? Exes? _No._ Definitely not exes. Manipulators? _Maybe._ Abusers? Did that make him a victim? He didn’t want to think about it.

He breathed in and choked on his tears. _Try again._

Breath in. _Don’t choke this time._

Hold.

Release.

Jason tried to let go of him but Dick grabbed his hand instead, holding it in a death grip. He didn’t want Jason to vanish into the shadows. He didn’t want to be left alone with Catalina and Mirage. They still lurked at the edge of his vision but every time he turned to face them they were gone.

Jason was saying something Dick wasn’t listening to as he pulled Dick up to stand on his own wobbly legs. He still clutched Jason’s hand, refusing to let go. He was sure he would fall if he let go. Fall and fall and fall some more. He wanted to stop falling. Catalina whispered in his ear that she’d catch him and he tightened his grip on Jason.

Jason glared at Cass, apparently she had signed something he didn’t like, but he conceded to whatever it was anyway. Dick couldn’t bring himself to care.

Wind rushed in his ears and the world blurred past him and the next time he crashed down, he landed on a couch. A strange couch, in a strange room he was sure he’d never been in. His head whipped around, looking for his tormentors, looking for an exit strategy. Instead he found Cass curled up on the other side of the couch, watching him.

“Okay?” She signed, her movements slow and contained.

Dick couldn’t remember what being okay felt like. Had he ever been okay?

He shook his head and stared at her suspiciously as he signed back, “Are you really you?” His movements were choppy and awkward, hindered by the constant tremble of his limbs. No matter what he did, they wouldn’t stop.

Real-Fake Cass searched for something on his face and he realized his mask was gone. When did he lose it? He felt naked without it, even more vulnerable than before. His eyes darted around, looking for it, before she caught his attention again. “Who else?”

If she wasn’t—if she didn’t know, then it didn’t matter. “Prove it.”

She frowned as she considered how to prove her own identity. Dick ignored her in favor of looking around again. There was something missing, its loss making his hand cold, but he couldn’t find it in the fog of his mind. The room he was in was sparsely decorated but well lit, keeping the shadows at bay. Too bad shadows weren’t the only thing he needed to get away from.

He still saw Catalina prowling at the edges of his vision, still heard her laughter.

The lack of Mirage only made him more suspicious of the girl sitting in front of him.

Potentially Fake-Cass caught his eye again. “Oracle got frustrated with silence.” Her hands danced, “You taught me to sign. Understood that motion made sense. You struggled with words once too.” She gave him one of her rare smiles, “You like silence.”

Real Cass, then. He smiled back.

The sound of a door opening shattered the moment, fraying his nerves all over again.

Dick’s head snapped up and watched as Jason walked into the room. Was it real Jason? Or Jason-Mirage? Why was he here? Where _was_ here? He desperately wished he had more answers. He looked back at Cass, panic in his eyes.

“Real Jason,” She signed, before he could even ask.

Real-Jason walked past them behind the couch, attempting to whack Cass in the back of the head as he growled, “Get your shoes off my damn couch.” She caught his wrist easily and they both glared at each other until she slowly unfolded legs from the couch and released him.

Dick blinked and then Mirage was there, leaning over the couch. She gave him a nauseating smile, “Still looking for me?”

Flinching back violently, he toppled off the couch head first. Falling was preferable to her touch, he decided as he fell. Most things were, honestly.

He no longer knew what wind sounded like without laughter entwined.

The next time he blinked, he found himself lying in a strange bed, in a strange room. He didn’t know how he got there, or why. Didn’t know whose bed this was. The only thing he knew was that he very much did _not_ want to be in a bed. Or near a bed. He scrambled up onto his legs—absently surprised to find he still _had_ working legs—and bolted out of the room.

The next room was the strange room with the strange couch. There was a door on his left, so left he went, throwing the light switch up and locking the door behind him. The light hurt his eyes, his head was pounding in time with the pounding of his heart. He could actually hear each thud against his rib cage, could feel his glass bones crack under the abuse.

His fingers gripped at cool porcelain as he tried to steady himself. He had to figure out where he was, figure out what happened. Cracking his eyes open against the light, he tried to take in his surroundings. The room was nauseatingly white—or he was nauseated, and it was white. It was impersonal and small, all hard surfaces. A bathroom. He didn’t have a mask on but he was still wearing his suit. He tried to take some comfort in that, but his suit hadn’t stopped— _Don’t think about that right now._

“Dick? What happened?” a voice called out distantly.

He didn’t know how to explain to the voice that nothing happened. _Something happened, it was just a long time ago._ The more he thought about it, the worse everything felt. His bones shattered, his lungs collapsed, his throat burned. _So don’t think about it._

“Come on, talk to me.”

He tried to ask where he was, whose bed he woke up in, what happened. All that came out was one strangled word: “Bed?”

“Bed?” The voice echoed, before making a thumping noise against the door, _“Oh._ You woke up in a strange bed, I’m a fucking moron.” The voice sighed, “Look, come out, I’ll make some tea and fill in the gaps. Sound good?”

When Dick didn’t respond the voice tried again, “You can’t live in my bathroom forever.”

After what felt like hours trying to remember how to breathe, Dick stumbled out of his sanctuary and towards the sounds in the next room over. He froze in the doorway, watching Jason’s back prepare the promised tea. The disembodied voice was Jason. He woke up in Jason’s bed? Didn’t Jason hate him?

“Yes, I’m Jason. Yes, the _real_ Jason. No, I don’t hate you.” He turned around and handed Dick a mug, gesturing for him to sit at the small table. “That cover all the bases?”

“I... guess.” Dick frowned as he sat, “How many times did I ask?”

“Just a few.” Jason shrugged and plopped a honey bottle down in front of Dick before taking the seat across from him. He watched, only mildly surprised, as Dick poured half the bottle into his tea.

“Batgirl found you on patrol, out of your mind.” He began explaining, “As it turns out, panicked people don’t respond well to sign language or face masks. She called me, of all people, for backup.” Jason scowled, “Remind me to tell her to never do that again.

“We think you got hit by fear toxin. I dragged you back here because you glued yourself to me and it was the closest anyway. She followed along because she didn’t trust me not to murder you to prove a point or whatever. So, thanks for making me waste a perfectly good safe house.”

Dick looked around, as if she had been in the room and he hadn’t noticed. He wouldn’t put it past her.

“She left after you launched yourself off the couch and knocked your own dumbass out on my coffee table. I guess she decided if I hadn’t killed you by then I probably wasn’t planning on doing it while you slept.”

“And that’s how I ended up in your bed?”

“I wasn’t thinking, I’m sorry.”

“What do you mean.” The words came out less like a question and more like an accusation, destroying any chance of deniability.

Jason stared at him.

“I mean, I should have known better than to put _you_ in a strange bed.”

The honey on his tongue turned to ash.

He had never told anyone. He was never going to. Telling meant admitting, admitting meant it actually happened. Not once, but _twice_. Sometimes he could convince himself that it hadn’t happened. That he was just confused.

No one was supposed to know.

And now Jason knew.

Dick stood abruptly, knocking his chair over and stumbling backward. “I have to go.” His voice sounded distant, so far removed from himself. He spun around and robotically walked out of the safe house as fast as he could. Behind him he could hear Jason chasing after him, telling him to wait.

He started running.

**Author's Note:**

> This wasn't supposed to be this long, but it would! Not! End!


End file.
